


Spring Day

by D_Oaks



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Destiny, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Worry not it's a reincarnation AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:46:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24414574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/D_Oaks/pseuds/D_Oaks
Summary: And so it starts anew. Who knew when would be the next time the Witcher would see his bard? How many years would he have to wait this time? Destiny always orchestrated these encounters and wouldn’t be swayed. Destiny was fickle like that, so Geralt was left to wait for his bard’s return.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Kudos: 26





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Well, stepping into The Witcher fandom finally even though I have been lurking quite a while now. Hope you guys enjoy! Feel free to request if you'd like, that's why I chose a reincarnation AU so all the little stories can come together into a big picture!

They would eventually find each other in every life. Because of that, their parting words on his deathbed were never an eternal goodbye. Not after the first time they reunited, at least. If they were being sappy, it was a heartfelt “I’ll see you soon, take care, my white wolf.” Most of the time it was a cheeky “I’m heading home for the winter.” 

Even so, Geralt still mourned every time the final breath left the bard’s body, but it wasn’t as gut-wrenching grief like the first time when he believed there wouldn’t be a second chance. He shuddered every time he thought about that cold bleakness, made worse by the unrelenting grip of guilt because it was his fault the bard had died. When they reunited the first time, the white wolf cried in his arms, apologizing profusely for not being fast enough, as if he didn’t already have inhuman speed. Jaskier murmured into his hair how there wasn’t anything to apologize for; the sword to the stomach was as much his fault for not listening to Geralt in the first place.

Eventually the searing grief became a dull ever-present ache within Geralt whenever Jaskier wasn’t there. Yennefer or Ciri, if he had found his child surprise in that life, would do their best to comfort him as would the remaining members of the Wolf school. Despite their assurances and gentleness, the creeping feeling of shame and weakness latched onto Geralt. This was the nth time of the dandelion’s passing and he was still crying over it? He should have been accustomed to it by now, the vicious thoughts in his head hissed about him. He did the only logical his wretched brain thought was reasonable; he started to hide the bard’s death and his sorrow from the others.

It was not long before Yen figured out why he would seemingly disappear off the face of the earth, not allowing her or the others to get near. When she finally tracked him down in the middle of the forest, she yelled at him something fierce. Scaring Roach away and letting it slip that the bard was as much her friend as he had been his. She didn’t speak to him for centuries after she dropped him off at Eskiel’s door. Unsurprisingly, it was Jaskier who made them reconcile, having found the sorceress before the witcher in his next life. 

As fate would have it, Jaskier’s face and features would change each time, yet his crystalline blue eyes and alluring personality remained constant. Sometimes the songbird would not remember his past lives; those were always bittersweet for Geralt. He would act so incredibly like his past self but there was something missing – shared history. His mannerisms were off at times. Even still, Geralt loved him, even if only as a friend sometimes.

Who knew when would be the next time the Witcher would see his bard? How many years would he have to wait this time? Destiny always orchestrated these encounters and wouldn’t be swayed. Actively seeking the musician out, or vice versa when Jaskier retained his memories, only resulted in a lifetime of anguish and almost meetings. Destiny was fickle like that, and Geralt was left to wait for his bard’s return. 


	2. Brief Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: blood, violence, some gore and the afftermath of that. 
> 
> Enjoy...

“When was the last time you bathed, you heathen?” Yennefer scrunched up her face and brought her sleeve to her nose in disgust. The herbal scent that clung to her clothing served to chase the stench away. Even so, death and despair were hard to get rid of. 

“Nice to see you too, Yen.” Geralt greeted her, unperturbed and rather used to the way he started to reek in recent days. He didn’t bother moving from where he was laying on his back, head on a log, looking up at the clouds. It would downpour heavily after this blasted heat was through. 

“Does it mean anything to you that your trusted stead isn’t willing to come near you?”

“Hmm.” The man glanced at her then in the direction that Roach wandered off after he had dismounted. Maybe he should have found a river earlier. 

The sorceress rolled her eyes, lightly kicking his side to have his gaze back on her. “The next town is only a couple of hours walk. Let’s go.”

Geralt sighed. He was heading there anyway, so he had no reason to object. It was best to get up before Yen started to seriously kick him, he decided. He whistled for Roach, and the mare dutifully trotted in his direction but neighed when he moved closer to her. Yennefer hid her laugh as she walked ahead of them, but otherwise didn’t strike up conversation as they walked. A companionable silence surrounded them. 

The three of them reached a tavern at the heart of the town at which point Geralt told Yennefer he didn’t have the coin to even afford a bath at such a place and was about to turn around to go to one of the smaller establishments in the outskirts of town when Yen snatched the reins from his hands. She continued to ignore him as she took Roach to the horse stable and promptly walked into the building. Those unfortunate enough to be sitting close to their path gagged and scurried away. Witch and Witcher reached the bar counter where the tavern owner was. Like the other humans, he was revolted by the odor rolling off the man, but he worried more about the loss of revenue from having rumors of letting foul smelling people like them into his tavern. 

“Do you have coin?” The man skeptically asked, stopping from cleaning the countertop. 

“No.” Geralt ground out, glaring at the woman beside him. 

“Then I really must ask you two to leave now.”

“My, it seems you don’t recognize my companion despite the many songs composed in his honor.” Yennefer leaned against the counter, looking at the man with predatory amusement dancing in her expression. She was clearly enjoying the exchange. 

The older man frowned and stared at Geralt until he put the pieces together. He gasped and hurriedly shook his head, negating her statement. “By gods, I didn’t realize.”

“Evidently,” The woman flicked an imaginary lint ball from the counter surface.

“Is there anything I could do for you?” The tavern owner nervously wrung the cloth in his hands. 

“Well,” Yennefer drawled, “we were looking for lodging—

“The white wolf can stay here free of charge,” the tavern owner readily agreed. He glanced at Geralt once again, looking him up and down before adding, “We’ll draw up a bath for you immediately!” 

Geralt warily looked at Yennefer’s triumphant gaze. Despite his bettered reputation, not many were keen on giving away handouts, especially not tavern owners that normally charged ridiculous lodging prices. They were offered drinks and food while they waited for his bath to be drawn. Yennefer was all too happy to accept the free service. 

It wasn’t long before they were shown to their room and Yennefer was ordering him to strip and get in the water immediately. The grime which served as second skin reluctantly washed off eventually. In the meantime, Geralt asked the mage why she was doing any of this. Something was happening, and he wanted to know what. 

“This town is plagued by a rampaging bruxa, the poor souls.” She responded, her voice dripping with too much sympathy to be sincere. “Seems like they want you to get rid of them.”

He looked up at her unimpressed, “And you couldn’t deal with it?”

“Of course I could, silly Witcher,” Yen said, dumping another pitcher of water onto his head unceremoniously, “I just didn’t want to. Besides, your bard is in town, sniffing for a new adventure surely.”

Geralt groaned and tried sinking further into the bath. An impossible action given his size. 

“Oh stop that,” she admonished, batting him with a washcloth, “Jaskier is looking forward to it just as much as you.” 

The Witcher raised an eyebrow in question while reaching over for his drink. 

At this she grinned, “We traveled here together.”

“You set this up,” he accused, narrowing his eyes at her as he took a swig of the burning liquid. 

“For free room and board at a decent establishment, how could I not?” The sorceress laughed while she redirected the water Geralt had thrown her way. “I suggest you find Jaskier before going to talk to the town lord. You’ll be interested to know he made a new friend. I believe he’s called Greg.”

Geralt hummed noncomittingly, but wondered who this new person was. Yennefer rolled her eyes at him and dropped the washcloth on his head, standing up and walking toward the door. She grinned at him just before she left the room and said, “Do let me know how it goes.” 

The door closed quietly behind her, leaving Geralt in tepid water. He tipped his head back to chig the rest of his drink. The cloth fell to the ground, soaking up the spilled water around the tub. Deciding he didn't want to prune any further, the witcher stood up out of the bath, water sloshed and dripped everywhere as he reached for a nearby bath towel. Outside of the washroom he found that Yennefer had rummaged through his travel bags and set aside a change of clothes, draping them over the chair near the bed. It was his Manticore ensemble sans the armor. He rifled through the bags and around the room, but the woman had taken his armor and any other alternative, leaving him only the bare essentials when it came to his weaponry. Geralt supposed he didn’t need the other gear until he confirmed the contract and hunted the vampire, yet he would make sure to get Yennefer back for this. 

Once he was dressed and putting on his boots, he thought about whether or not to fetch Jaskier like the sorceress suggested. If it was a bruxa, Jaskier would either be in the way or in danger. Both were equally likely that they may as well be the same. Knowing the bard, he would be too easily swayed by the charms of the bruxa to even put up a decent fight. That train of thought solidified his decision not to seek Jaskier out until he fulfilled this particular contract; he could always give the man the details, as few as Jaskier complained he was given, later. Geralt doubted he would see him along the way anyway considering the bard would more than likely be in the busiest place in town, drawing up a crowd with his new pal Greg. That or the nearest monastery library, doing extensive reading on anything and everything under the sun for the sake of his music. Geral fastened his weapon scabbards and made his way out of the tavern after asking someone in what direction the lord’s house was located. 

Walking through the town’s cobblestone streets drew whispers and the eyes of the townsfolk. Those that recognized him quickly alerted the others. Children were peeking at him from behind the skirts of their mothers, staring at him with wide saucer eyes, able to tell he was different but not able to pinpoint why. It was their innocent curiosity that was unsettling to Geralt, yet they reminded him of a younger Ciri so he tried not to come off as menacing. He was about to reach the long path leading to the lord’s house when he heard his name being called in the distance. 

Fuck. He had wanted to avoid Jaskier until the contract was over. How the hell did he get discovered so fast? Then again, news travels fast by word of mouth, especially news of a Witcher staying in town. Geralt stopped and turned around to see Jaskier jogging toward him, arm extended above his head to wave. He was wearing a forest green attire with white and gold details, doublet unlaced and revealing his white chemise. 

“Geralt!” The bard smiled once he stood in front, looking over him appreciatively. “Moving away from the all black, I see.” 

Warmth spread up Geralt’s neck, and he did his best to avoid it going on his face, remembering how Lambert used to tease him about the facility with which one could notice his embarrassment given how pale he was. 

“Well, enough of that,” Jaskier motioned, “we have a plump little man to see.”

The walk to the lord’s house was filled with idle chatter, what with Jaskier talking enough for the two of them. Geralt didn’t mind, at some point he went from wanting his companion to shut up for longer than five seconds to considering him a comforting constant during his travels. Geralt only realized this change occurred when Jaskier stopped traveling with him after he yelled at the bard unnecessarily on the mountain that time. He still regretted his words, and Jaskier did eventually forgive him, citing that he needed new material for composing all the while delightfully stroking Roach’s mane. Geralt wouldn’t admit how relieved he had been when Jaskier had agreed to travel with him again. 

“Hmm, a lot bigger than I thought it would be,” Jaskier observed as they neared the gates. 

Armed guards were posted on the outside, though they seemed to be recent hires as they were idly lounging about the entrance with their weapons strewn carelessly on the ground before them. Still, Geralt stopped Jaskier from walking into their striking range should they foolishly decide to attack. 

“Evening, gentlemen!”

“Whatta ya want, you overgrown shrub?” The man cackled at his own joke while his companion looked to be done with life. 

Jaskier made a discontented sound in his throat, glancing at Geralt before returning his attention to the two men. “We are here to speak with your good lord.”

“Oh, ya mean tha’ fat bas’ard hidin’ in his house while the res’ of us are slaugh’ered,” the man interrupted. 

“Yes?”

Geralt rolled his eyes and stepped forward. “Either you let us through or we’ll let ourselves through.”

“Don’ get your pan’ies in a twist, Witcher. We know who ya are,” The same man responded. “Tom, show ‘em in will ya?” 

Tom, a rather lanky man dressed in threadbare clothes, lost some of his despondent expression and stood up. Dusting himself off, he motioned for the two men to follow him. He led them through the gardens to the front entrance, where he called for the bailiff. An adequately dressed man came to the door and greeted them. He was average height and build but did not have that ruggedness of someone that plowed the fields or worked arduously. The new man gave them both a once over, seemingly skeptical of their ability. 

“Welcome,” he finally said, giving Tom instructions not to allow anyone else inside the gates before turning around to walk into the manor. 

Both men took this as their cue to follow through the marble hall and into the drawing room where the bailiff announced their presence. Among the opulence sat he who was the lord of the manor if the gaudy dress was any indication. 

“Ah, Witcher, welcome!” The rotund man spoke, beefy arms opening wide. “I was just about to send word to you.” 

Geralt grunted while Jaskier proceeded to bolster the man’s ego in an attempt to get the best rate out of him. The gluttonous lord was basking in the compliments with the same gusto he reserved for the feasts he regularly held for himself. When Geralt couldn’t take more of it, he brusquely interrupted, “And the bruxa?”

“Oh, is that what that thing is called?” The lord was clearly put out at the change of subject, face contorting with disdain making him look even more unflattering than he was. “It’s been terrorizing the village peasants for a while now. It’s bad for business when your workers just die, you see.”

Jaskier tensed at the derogatory tone used for both monster and townsfolk while Geralt kept his face impassive, only the clench of his jaw revealed his mounting annoyance. Dealing with Lords and noblemen was infinitely worse than dealing with town folks; they thought they could throw their weight in gold around and everything would be fine. 

“I’ll pay you handsomely if you are able to kill it.”

There was no if about it, Geralt thought. The bruxa was going about killing innocents, not keeping any balance whatsoever if even this pompous lord was concerned enough to pay him to get rid of it. But he would determine that on his own later when he faced the bruxa. 

“That’s what we’re here for!” Jaskier chimed in, throwing his hands in the air in a grand gesture, “Worry not, your vampire infestation will be gone by sunrise. If you’ll excuse us.” 

“Oh, how about you stay here, bard?” The lord quickly suggested, “I doubt you’d be able to do anything against that vile monster anyway.”

“Well, you see —

“He’ll gladly stay,” Gerald interjected, fully expecting the bard to look over at him incredulously. 

“Geralt! —

“Splendid! I’ll throw in a few extra coins if you sing at dinner.” The lord clapped his hands and motioned them out, “You may leave now. The bailiff will show you to the guest rooms.”

Jaskier inclined his head and walked out with Geralt. The bailiff was waiting just outside the drawing room. “What the hell, Geralt? I would much rather have stayed at the town if you were going to ditch me.”

“I’m sure you’ll be able to survive the night without your adoring fans’ attention,” Geralt replied, rolling his eyes. 

“We’ll see,” Jaskier tsked and proceeded to walk ahead to start a conversation with their guide. 

The three reached the guest quarters, and the bailiff gave Jaskier a rundown of the Manor’s meal schedule and areas where he could explore in the meantime unless he was summoned by the lord. The witcher only half listened; he wouldn’t need to know any of this information anyway. His plans were to return to the tavern and collect his armor from Yennefer in order to start the hunt. He tuned back into the conversation as the bailiff was excusing himself. 

“What’s the real reason I have to stay here?” Jaskier demanded as soon as the bailiff was out of earshot, “And don’t give me that bygone excuse of me getting in the way.”

“It’s dangerous, Jaskier.”

“Pish posh.” The brunette crossed his arms in front of himself, “Life’s dangerous.”

“Well, I would rather you stay alive,” Geralt countered back honestly. “And not die”

This threw Jaskier off his groove, rendering him unable to reply as Geralt continued. “So if you could just stay put for once. I’ll answer all your questions when you get back.”

At that, Jaskier looked at him disbelieving. “You mean answers that are one word or clipped sentences?”

Geralt sighed, “No Jaskier, you can pester me all you want as soon as I get back.”

Jaskier looked at him suspiciously but nodded regardless. “If you don't, you’ll let me ride on Roach for an entire month.”

“Deal.”

***

A couple of hours later found Jaskier pacing about the chamber room he was to sleep in. Geralt had left shortly after they made their pact and he was going to hunt the bruxa and come back in one piece hopefully. Dinner had been the hassle he thought it would be. Despite the delicious spread before him, he was hardly able to enjoy it as the Lord would request song after song, essentially demanding to be entertained constantly. The bard very nearly tossed the platter of boiled potatoes at the lord. He would have rather been fighting that bruxa himself with how done with the whole evening he was. Damn Geralt for having him stay here; he should've just stayed at the tavern with Yennefer. At least he had a coin purse filled to the brim for his troubles. Still, it was time to get ready for bed and await the witcher’s return in more comfortable clothing.

“Bard!”

Jaskier blearily opened his eyes, making a face at whoever was shaking him awake. He glanced out the room’s window. It was still dark out. “What’s going on?”

“The witcher is waiting for you outside the gates,” the man pushed his belongings at him, hovering over him. “This is terribly rude, but the lord wants you out immediately. I think the witcher insulted him when collecting his bounty.”

“Sounds like him.” Jaskier hurriedly put on his clothing and collected his lute and other items. He bade the bailiff well and quickly walked out of the room to the front entrance, hoping he wouldn't have to interact with the lord any further. The cold night made itself known, biting at him as he stepped out of the manor. Jaskier shivered and held his doublet closed, longing for the warmth of the bedchamber.

The gates squealed open reluctantly when he pushed at them. When he was on the other side of the gates, he couldn’t see Geralt anywhere.

“That arsehole,” Jaskier cursed, thinking the witcher had started walking to town without him, already planning on unleashing his wrath on him. “He deserves what’s coming to him.” 

The more he walked, the more confused he was. The path was fairly straight and unobstructed by trees, so he should have been able to see someone walking in front of him. His vision was top notch too, despite however many times Yennefer teased him about his humanness. 

Jaskier glanced back, no longer able to see the Manor having made a turn. The silence was broken by the sounds of twigs snapping in the forest further in front. The bard turned around, cursing that in his rush he had put his dagger in his lute bag. All the muscles in his body tensed when the rustling of the underbrush grew louder and he could make out a figure in the darkness. Part of him was convinced Geralt was just messing with him. Still he waited as the figure emerged from the forest. 

“Well, well, well, it's the witcher’s bard,” the man that stood guard at the gate from earlier said derisively. His disheveled appearance and that glint in his eye were unsettling in the darkness with only the moon’s glow lighting the path. He had his halberd with him. 

Jaskier tried smiling confidently, but here’s sure it came out more of a grimace. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up when he heard footsteps behind him. Taking a peak he saw the second guard and two other individuals moving to surround him.

“Look, gentlemen,” he nervously displayed his hands, “I really don’t mean to interrupt your late night plans.”

“Oh, what a shame,” the man shared a conspiratory look with his friends before smiling wickedly at Jaskier, “we were planning on offing the bumbling idiot ourselves and selling off his possessions, but we thought up of a different business adventure, so why don’t you help us out?”

“I really must be going.” 

“ ‘fraid you don’t have a choice anymore, bard,” the man motioned the others closer. “We need you for ransom.”

“Fuck if I don’t,” Jaskier replied, calculating his chances of slipping past the man unscather. The men behind him were also armed with swords. Jaskier’s heart hammered and the feeling that made his insides twist in discomfort intensified as he realized he was clearly outnumbered. He wouldn't go down without a fight. 

It was a tense moment before anyone moved. Jaskier determined none of them actually knew how to use their weapons given the pathetic way in which they were holding them. If he could just slip past them and into the woods, he would be free. 

“Enough waiting! Get him!” 

The men walked toward him, carefully even though he was clearly unarmed. At least they have some sense, Jaskier thought. The next moment occurred so suddenly as Jaskier made a split second decision. There was no time to dig out his dagger from the bag, so he brandished his lute as his only weapon and swung at the closest unsuspecting mad. He winced as his precious lute made contact, thankfully staying intact as it knocked the man to the ground. The other man yelled in anger and swung at him in a blind rage. Jaskier was able to dodge his uncontrolled swing and push him back, but he miscalculated in thinking the first man was knocked out for when he turned to the side to flee the man was already up and slashing. Jaskier had foolishly walked straight into the swinging path of the blade.

Searing pain erupted in his midsection, flesh was no match for sharpened metal. His lute clattered to the ground as he clutched at the wound with his arms. Someone from behind him kicked his back and he went tumbling forward, trying not to make the injury open further. He screwed his eyes shut as his headband shoulder collided with the dirt path. The same person then kicked him onto his back, revealing the long gash at his abdomen from which blood poured out of, staining his clothes.

“You idiot!” their leader growled, stomping over to knock the man who slashed Jakier to the ground, “Now we can’t use him.”

“Gods, now the witcher will be after us,” Tom’s voice quivered in fear. The man on the ground paled at his words. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

“Help me,” Jaskier pleaded as another wave of nausea hit him, seeing so much of his own blood gush out. He was practically holding his innards inside himself. 

Tom looked at him in horror and turned around and fled, quickly followed by the man on the ground. 

Their leader cursed and kicked Jaskier, making him yell out in pain, “Bloody useless all of you.”’ He started to walk off after Tom. 

“Shouldn’t we kill him? Prevent the Witcher from knowing we did it?” The last of the group lingered near Jaskier called out, drawing his sword anew. 

“Leave him, the animals will get to him or the bloodloss. Whatever comes first.”

Jaskier didn’t try to get their attention again, determined to stay alive until Geralt or help arrived. His vision was swimming, so he shut his eyes and made sure the men were far enough away before he inched his way to the underbrush to stay somewhat hidden. To his horror there was a trail of blood leading up to him. Now that he was situated under some cover, the effects of his injuries compounded. The adrenaline was wearing off, and he was getting cold. There was so much blood. 

***

The witcher let out a string of curses just as the bruxa’s head hit the ground. He glanced down at his body where his wounds were. Five gashes made their way from his lower ribs to his hips and more littereed his legs where the bruxa tried to disable him. When he wiped his brow, his hand came back with blood and sweat; his eyes stinging as a result. He cursed some more as he put away his weapons and retrieved the head, needing proof of his kill. All that was left was to head back to the manor and collect both the bard and his money. 

The road back to the manor was as desolate as it had been on the way to the hunt. There was still something unsettling about the night, which he had pushed aside earlier as his imagination and knowing there was a bruxa in the area. He noted the night was oddly silent, no screech owls preying on unsuspecting rodents and no wolves howling at the wind. The path before him seemed to stretch incredibly long. Maybe he should have brought Roach to have been able to get back to the Manor faster, but it really was unfair to not allow her to rest. 

His ears picked up a commotion, but he thought nothing of it, probably just some wild animals moving through the forest. Soon he was near the manor, and the gnawing feeling that something was wrong intensified. It was then that Geralt smelled the metallic scent of blood and drew his steel sword, not willing to take chances with his injury, and continued his trek more cautiously. Eventually he could discern a blood trail in the direction of the forest line, which he followed. 

“Geralt,” a weak voice flitted through the air, “that you?”

And then much more softly as if unintended, “Gods, I hope it isn’t some wild animal.”

Geralt lowered his weapon, and moved closer to the dense underbrush on the side of the path. The sword he had been carrying clattered to the ground when he dropped it and rushed to the bard. Jaskier was lying face up, leaning his head on a shrub and clutching at his abdomen. The bloodied scent was strongest where he was, and the dark stains on his clothes were telling; he had been there long enough for it to seep through his clothes and onto the ground. Immediately Geralt leaned down and gathered the bard into his arms. He was freezing to the touch.

“Everything is spinning, Geralt,” Jaskier murmured, burying his head further into the crook of his neck. The jostling movement unsettled him further as Geralt ran as fast as he was able to. “so hazy, and ‘m cold.”

“We’re almost to the town,” he lied, trying to comfort the man in his arms. The witcher suppressed a wince from the pain shooting through his own injuries with every step he took. He’d had much worse, but the bard was turning a worryingly pale shade making his lips seem blue and had started to break out in cold sweat a while ago. His breaths came in shorter intakes now. Geralt didn't remember the path to town being this long. Silence between them stretched an unsettling amount of time. 

“Jaskier!” the bard made unintelligible sounds. “Stay awake, talk to me.”

“The kugh.”

“What?”

“Coast.” Jaskier tiredely enunciated. “ ‘never did go to the coast.”

The end of his statement came out in one short breath, without his enhanced hearing Geralt was sure he wouldn’t have heard it. Then the bard went fully limp in his arms and panic bubbled up inside of Geralt. He tried to get a response out of Jaskier to no avail. He cursed when he could faintly make the town’s outline in the distance. At least they were close by now. 

If there were people out on the streets they would see him carrying the bard's dying body in his arms, unbridled panic and despair defining his usually stoic face. He didn’t care. He sprinted to get to the tavern, kicking the door open and frightening the few people who were up at this hour. People screamed when they saw the bloodied Witcher.

“Yennefer!” Geralt yelled, making his way further into the room. The tavern owner dashed up the stairs to fetch the woman while Geralt carefully placed Jaskier on a nearby table. It felt like an eternity before the sorceress appeared beside him, pushing him away to assess the damage. There was a long gash through the bard's stomach. His intestines were visible at the deepest portion. 

“You have to help him.” Geralt pleaded, not taking his eyes away from Jaskier’s face. 

“Jaskier!” She yelled at the man below her, checking for a pulse. No response; his pulse was weak and waning. “You stupid bard, you can’t die now.”

Yennefer did her best to heal him, mending the wound together and covering his organs once again, yet his breaths were shallower every second and he was still unresponsive. They were too late. “He’s lost too much blood already.”

“No.” Geralt refused to listen. “You’re wrong.”

“There’s nothing I can do.” Yennefer’s voice broke, staring at her bloodied hands and refusing to watch as life left the bard’s body. “Geralt, I’m sorry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can see, I somewhat circumvented the Geralt-Monster fight scene. I've never writing a fight scene before. Any feedback is welcome! Any feedback on the historical aspects are also welcome!


	3. Ghost

Ciri tracked Geralt and Yennefer along the path when word reached her of the bard’s passing. The young woman refused to leave Geralt’s side for which Yennefer was thankful. To Ciri, Jaskier had been an odd comfort, a tie to her royal life with all his fussiness and knowledge of high society manners, but more than that, he was a reminder to fuck all and live life. She was no stranger to death, so his death meant she’d have one more name to carry with her until her own demise. Now it was her turn to look out for Geralt as best as she could without making the witcher feel claustrophobic. 

For his part, Geralt pulled off a convincing act if one wasn’t paying attention. More than once his shoulders would tense, and he would quickly excuse himself whenever a different bard attempted renditions of Jaskier’s songs at taverns. Then there were the people who knew the bard would travel with him in spring and summer telling him it was such a shame the talented young man had passed. Ciri noted all of this and the manner with which the Witcher avoided towns and people even more, so she was relieved when they made it to Kaer Morhen that winter, especially after that trip to Oxenfurt. 

The famed academy had received news of the bard’s passing in mid spring. They sent word for Geralt to head to the campus by the beginning of summer, so the pair reached Oxenfurt some weeks after that. Geralt looked positively green as he was led through the halls to Jaskier’s living quarters. Ciri had offered to deal with the officials and everything else about the visit, but the white wolf turned her down. He had to do this himself, he said. 

“Professor Pankratz left you his possessions in the event of his passing, lord knows why,” the stick thin old man said in a tone that revealed he knew the why and very much disapproved of it.

Geralt only nodded stiffly while Ciri glared daggers at the man. Eventually they reached their destination, and the old man told them that any items left behind would be repurposed for the university or would be discarded. They had only four days to go through everything. For the size of the office and living quarters, it was a lot. Books were piled high on every corner of the rooms, most of which Geralt knew he would never need but had to convince himself not to take as they would serve the university well. There was also no possible way Roach and Ciri’s stallion would be able to take everything. The young woman recommended rifling through the tomes regardless; it had been her grandmother's habit to place papers or other in between pages of books. Maybe Jaskier was the same. 

Several books later, they had many dried flowers in between sheets of paper and cotton. Eventually Geralt found a rather large book where the dried flowers were probably destined for. As Geralt turned the pages, he realized there were herbs and other dried medicinal plants placed carefully in pockets on each side of a page. Annotations and captions filled the pages next to the specimens, detailed descriptions of their properties and the occasional wayward comment. The bard must have spent a great deal of time developing the book. 

“We should take that one,” Ciri said, looking at the contents from over his shoulder. Maybe it would prove useful in the future. 

The Witcher agreed and set the book aside. As he glanced around the room, there were still piles of unsearched tomes everywhere and a disarray of parchments strewn all over Jaskier’s desk. Geralt sighed, tired of looking through tomes in a place that was saturated with Jaskier’s scent. Even with his Witcher senses, he would get accustomed to the smell, chamomile and apple blossom faded into the background, bringing with it unacknowledged comfort. Only for him to notice the scent again and be reminded that the bard was gone. It made Geralt’s throat constrict in that familiar way, yet his eyes were no longer able to express his sorrow. 

“Why don’t you take a break, Geralt?” Ciri asked, placing a hand on his shoulder, bringing him out of his thoughts. 

He glanced at her, and she squeezed his shoulder, giving him a slight nod. Geralt knew he wouldn’t be away for long; he couldn’t let Ciri do all the work, but stepping out of those quarters was quite literally a breath of fresh air. 

Every step took him farther away from the bard’s living quarters, making it easier to breathe and settle his thoughts. There were very few students roaming the passageways. Those that were gave secretive glances in his direction when they thought he wasn’t looking, for which Geralt was grateful. 

He hadn’t been paying much attention where he was going and found himself walking along one of the bridges connecting the two islands eventually. There he stopped, leaning on the stone parapet. The view before him was idyllic, blue hued mountain ranges were peaking above the forest line. His sharp eyes could make out the crystalline snow caps at the apex before they shifted back to the river‘s water, impossibly opaque but not in a murky, muddy way. The Witcher wondered if Jaskier had ever stood here, overlooking the same scene. Would he come here to clear his head, to get away from the students who surely filled the halls in the winter? What would occupy the bard’s mind when he stood here?

“Witcher!” 

Geralt turned in the direction of which his title was called. A woman dressed in orange and green was walking down the bridge toward him. The feather in her red-orange beret was fanning out every so often. 

“I heard you were here,” she cheerfully explained her approach. “It’s nice to meet you in the flesh instead of in a ballad.” 

Her cheerful demeanor slipped from her face as he continued to stare at her, wondering why she had approached him at all. None of the other students had done it. Still she continued past the mounting silence. 

“If you require assistance sorting things out, I’d be happy to extend my stay.” The woman looked almost hopeful as if she wanted him to ask her the favor, “I was passing through to retrieve any parcels Dandelion may have left me.” 

Her voice went soft at the end, and she looked wary now. 

“Dandelion?” Geralt asked, tilting his head. 

“That was what we called him here at the Academy,” she cleared her throat and looked away, “Jaskier, I mean.” 

Ah, here it was. Another facet of Jaskier’s life that Geralt didn’t know. A trivial detail of the bard’s life, which Geralt would have never known had he not met this stranger. THis knowledge left an acrid taste in his mouth. He’d never again be able to discover tidbits of Jaskier from the source itself. All new knowledge of Jaskier would be received from those that knew him. 

Geralt must have been glaring when the woman glanced at him because she took a step away.

“Yes well, I must be going,” she hurriedly excused herself, “my offer stands, Witcher.” 

A pool of guilt seeped into Geralt’s core, making him grimace. She hadn’t been at fault, and she was only being kind by offering to help. Yet he scared her off. He sighed and started walking back to the living quarters. In the distance, a flash of red orange made a turn into one of the buildings, but he kept walking. It was too late to do anything now, he convinced himself and continued walking. 

When he got back to Ciri, the young woman had made considerable progress with the books and even had some of the students cart off the items they had already inspected. The two of them continued their perusal of the quarters. That which they didn’t need or felt immediately attached to was donated to the academy. Geralt was left with a sparsely used journal, the tome and other nicknacks of the bard’s while Ciri took with her a small ornate table mirror and a scarf she had gifted the bard some years prior. 

It was late evening on their last night at the Academy that Geralt saw the woman again, looking to deliver a package to him. He took the package in hand and accepted the words of comfort that left her mouth, wondering how much of Jaskier she knew, before closing the door on her. 

At night when the candle allotted to him had burned a quarter of the way down, Geralt sat with the bundle in front of him on the table. Ciri had gone to sleep some time ago. It was just him and his thoughts now. The bundle beckoned him, and he reached out to hold it in his hands. It barely weighed anything. The scents coming off it were smoke from a hearth, ink and that woman. It had been with her person for a couple of days at least, so that made sense.

Gently he untied the strings holding the parcel together. As the fabric fell open, the smell of dried ink intensified, yet it now mingled with chamomile and apple blossoms. At the very top of everything was a folded piece of parchment. With one hand Geralt unfolded it and his eyes landed on the topmost line in the bard’s script.

_ My dear Priscilla _

And that’s all he read. The parchment malformed and wrinkled with the force he used to fold it. The bundle now felt like lead in his hands, but he knew he couldn’t be rid of it. It was still a piece of Jaskier after all, so he rewrapped it and tied the string as securely as he could before shoving the entire thing into his satchel. 

Geralt blew out the candle and went to sleep. 

Even weeks later, Jaskier’s scent lingered on his belongings. 

Of course it did, Geralt had carefully wrapped them in cotton sheets to stow away in his travel bag. He had transferred them to a chest as soon as they reached Kaer Morhen. The bundle the woman gave him lay on the table of his room again. It remained there for a better part of the winter, purposely forgotten in favor of training and renovation of the castle. By now the scent of her was nearly gone, overwritten by the Witcher keep.

It was at this time, months after the incident, that Geralt took the parcel in his hands and unwrapped it with utmost care. Letting the chamomile and apple blossom soothe over his nerves and pounding hear. He smoothed out the wrinkled parchment and opened it to read. 

_ My dear Priscilla,  _

_ Fate must have smitted me if you are reading this letter. I would hope I’d have died without regrets, but I rather doubt that is the case — at least where our infamous white wolf is concerned in the time I write this letter.  _

_ I could shower you with praises for your natural beauty and talent. Except I fear that would be a waste of time as you already know how even the proudest of songbirds stop to hear you sing.  _

_ Instead I will call upon your vast intellect and sensitivity to make the choice you feel is best, both for him and for my legacy. I leave to you some of my most private compositions. Many of these have not been finished or if they have, are not composed to my quality of my liking. I know you value an artist's integrity and would never betray this trust which I have in you. Unlike that pompous idiot Valdo Marx, seriously beware of him and kick him on his miniscule family jewels the next time you see him in my honor.  _

_ Back on topic, I’ll leave it up to you whether you wish to keep these writings or hand them off to Geralt of Rivia, who for the last couple of decades has occupied my heart and mind and is the subject of many of the present compositions.  _

_ Please don’t punch him. He has apologized as I’ve told you countless times, and you would only be breaking a hand or wrist if you carry out vengeance in my name. I do not wish for him to hurt more than he is. He hides it well, Priscilla.  _

_ Thank you, dear Callonetta.  _

_ Sincerely yours, _

_ Dandelion  _


End file.
